Catastrophic
by M.G. Monticello
Summary: In other words, the state of the flat...thanks to Sherlock.


I wrote this quite a while ago but then decided not to post it, since I had just read a very similar story and the plot seemed kind of over-used- John comes home, finds Sherlock's wrecked the place, gets mad and leaves...but I'll stop rambling now. Cheers.

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><p>"Sherlock, I know you're so <em>busy<em>," said John, sarcastically, "but I think we ought to discuss something."

"Regarding...?" said Sherlock, without looking up.

"The catastrophic state of this room, for one." John motioned to the huge mess before him.

Sherlock looked entirely out of place in the room, which was strewn with papers, maps, a smashed clock, pottery, along with an upturned bucket of dirt (who knew where that came from), a few cell phones and gadgets, odds and ends, all jumbled up and blown around so it looked like a great storm had passed through indoors, then turned around and passed through again, completely missing the man in the armchair.

The man in the armchair, on the other hand was not ruffled, irked, hurried or discombobulated, practically radiating coolness in his own little world, clothes perfect and with not even a hair out of place to show that he'd been through anything bothersome in the last twenty-four hours, his lanky self absolutely transfixed by whatever he was typing on his open laptop.

"Oh stop grumbling, Mrs. Hudson will get around to cleaning it up sooner or later." he said.

John rolled his eyes, "Will you be needing that filthy foot in the microwave much longer?"

"Hard to say."

"Why is there a foot in the microwave?"

"Toenail fungus expiriment."

"You know I plan on having Sarah over sometime this week?"

"Then I believe I've just found reason to leave it there longer."

"I was gone for five days. Five days!" said John, picking a way through the pile of debris to the sofa.

"Five days and a half," corrected Sherlock, "Is there something wrong with that?"

"I just thought you'd be able to hold the flat together yourself, without trashing it, for that short amount of time..." he gave the room a defeated once-over and was about to bring up another subject of annoyance when something shriveled and brownish caught his eye. He picked it up, the thing having left a brown patch on the sofa where it lay for who knows how long, noting what appeared to be a fingernail still attatched to it.

"Is this a finger?" If John hadn't been a doctor he might have been more disgusted, also, being Sherlock's flatmate had taken the surprise out of unanticipated things like this and he merely said, "It isn't one of yours, is it?"

"Hm? Finger?" said Sherlock, still not looking up. "Must have come from one of those martial arts masters I spent an enchanting evening with- very entertaining. Just toss it in the bin."

"...Which explains the sword stuck in the mantelpiece." said John, not putting the partly decomposed finger in the garbage as he should have done but tossing it aside, no longer really caring where it landed.

That caught Sherlock's immediate attention- the sword, not the finger- and his pale eyes finally un-glued themselves from the computer and darted anxiously around to where there was, indeed, a sword stuck deeply into the mantelpiece. How he could have missed that, it was improbable what with his incredible skills of deduction, but he certainly didn't want Mrs. Hudson getting wind of certain things that took place in her flat, and he yanked it out, shoving it behind the bookcase.

He brushed his hands together and went back to his laptop, satisfied that the landlady would now have no clue as to there being martial arts masters paying visits to him and bringing deadly weapons to the very floor above where she slept.

"What is that you're doing?" asked John, meaning the laptop that Sherlock was so interested in.

"Case."

"The one with the genetically mutated geckos..?"

"No, that one was easy, got it done rather too fast." said Sherlock, "I was bored so I hacked into the police database. Several actors got murdered last week at a gala of some kind...now more-"

"And the police can't make head nor tail of it." said John, from past experience knowing just where this was headed.

"Of course not! They think they're all so brilliant poking their noses around like dogs in a butcher's shop. And getting absolutely _nowhere_."

"I'm sure if they needed you we'd have gotten word by now." said John.

"As an insult, they have gone and hired some lady detective, Calliana, or something like that. Idiots!" said Sherlock.

"Give her a chance, Sherlock. You're not the center of the universe."

"Yes, yes and the sun goes around the Earth and blah blah all that." he looked hurt, then his face suddenly brightened considerably. "Oh! A new murder just three minutes ago! Backstage at the...wonderful! Now what would Sally's password be..?"

"For goodness sake, Sherlock, let people have a little privacy?"

Sherlock sent him a scathing glare.

"So is this what you've been doing for the five days I've been gone, fighting samaurai and hacking into classified police accounts-?"

"It's crime, John, it deserves my attention whether I'm supposed to be seeing it or not."

"...And turning the place into a dump."

"Pretty much. If it's bothering you, clean it up." Sherlock lit upon a possible solution for the password and triumphantly keyed it in, not even pausing on the fact that Sally Donovan would be furious were she to find out. "Actually," he continued, "It was the ostrich that made most of the mess, so don't blame me."

"Sometimes I wonder why I haven't moved out of here yet..." said John. "Or completely gone off the edge."

"Because you're an idiot." said Sherlock, helpfully.

"Right. Yes, thank you, I love being called an idiot."

"Anytime."

John looked out the window at the street below and the people walking by, imagining what the consequences might be if he were to go get his revolver and shoot Sherlock in the head right here and now, and what he could do to keep himself from doing such a notorious deed...

"You could go make me some tea," contributed Sherlock, "And while you're at it, bring me that laser gun wrapped with orange reflective tape in the jar of isophorone diisocyanate."

He was oblivious to the fact that he'd suceeded in further infuriating John, who kicked a rusty horseshoe into a pile of boxes and went to the door.

Sherlock, somewhat taken by surprise, said, "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Why are you doing that? You just got back."

"Which is the point exactly. If I stay here I'm going to turn into a freak. Goodbye." said John, shutting the door which was followed by the muffled sound of feet thumping down stairs.

Sherlock frowned a little, wondering what he could have said to upset John, and sniffed dissmissively, as if to mark the matter at an end and not meriting any of his further attention, and went back to whatever urgent thing he was typing out.

|/\())Oo~ THE END ~oO(()/\|


End file.
